Tony’s Bad Day

I’m writing because days like these shouldn’t happen, but they do. They defiantly shouldn’t happen in the south of France, but they still do – and they’re somehow more manageable here than elsewhere. I think it has to do with the rosé therapy, which will begin in the Jacuzzi as soon as I finish posting.

The Car
It started at 2:00am.

We were all having fun – Maria (Tony’s marvelous roommate), Berryl (her wonderful friend), Sheldon (another employee of the Boss who’s a ranger on a game reserve), Kim (Sheldon’s sister), Tony, Tequila and I. Beginning at 8, it was an evening of delicious food, uncorkable rosé, unstoppable laughter. Most of the girls were gathered around the table finishing the tarte tropezian with their fingers, the rest of us were pouring whiskey. The party was just getting started.

Then the phone rang. “Shit,” Maria said as Tony reached for it. “You know what this means – something’s gone wrong and Tony has to work.”

“ ‘Ello?” he answered.

Then his cell phone rang.

It was the Boss on his cell, the Boss’s wife on the landline. The Aston Martin broke down, and it’s Tony’s job to tow it home.

“Anyone feel like coming to help?”

Eh, I try to be a good friend. I put the whisky in the fridge and the dog in Maria’s care, and we were off – cruising the Route du Plage at 2:15, searching for a disabled vehicle on the side of the road. Before long, I was on my hands and knees (in white pants and red heels), helping Tony rig up a line to drag the car home. When we maneuvered through the round-point and down the narrow dirt driveway of the boss, the heels came off so we could push it – literally, Tony and I pushed the car – into its place between the Bentley and the Land Rover.

When our mission was complete, the boss looked at us and said, “Well, that was a pain. And you caught the wheel with the line once.”

“Yea, you know, I tried,” Tony said.

“What were you doing before this?”

“Oh, having dinner, saying goodbye to our friend who’s returning to South Africa in the morning. And first thing Catherine and I are taking the scooter to Toulon to be fixed; we have to leave by 7.”

“Ok,” the Boss said. “Well, carry on. And I’d like to use the new boat around noon tomorrow, and I don’t want to go alone, so why don’t you come with me.” Then he went to bed, leaving Tony and I alone in the driveway.

I bit my tongue to refrain from the shouts of insults lining up in my head. Instead, I turned to Tony: “On y va.” We piled back into the van.

(The saddest part was as I stood by the car, I couldn’t help touching it. It was the perfect shade of blue, and I felt like Honey Ryder just being in its glorious presence. I ran my fingers along where the hood meets the car. I stroked the side under the guise of “making sure it’s all one piece.” I lingered to take in the incredible scent of custom-fitted leather each time I opened the door. “Tony,” I said, “I think I want to make out with this car.” He didn’t like hearing that much either.)


The Morning
We didn’t get back to the house until after three. Three hours later, we were up – driving to Toulon to get the damn scooter fixed, me in the van and him on the scooter. We were late to start – and nothing aggravates Tony more than being late – because he lost his wallet. To make matters worse, on the way to Toulon, Tony realized that he A) forgot his jacket – a necessity when scooting at 90km/h; and B) the back brakes didn’t work. Things weren’t looking good.

But with the help of the best GPS machine I’d ever used, we made it! Of course, in typical French fashion, the shop opened a half hour late, and they made him wait 45 minutes before filling out the paperwork to leave the stupid bike for the weekend. Tony got angry (again, it’s the ‘being late’ thing); I napped in the car.


The GPS
He woke me up by opening the van door. “You can drive,” I kindly offered and crawled over the gear stick to the passengers seat. He got in, slammed the door, put the car into 1st. With one quick motion, I watched in horror as Tony’s Bad Happening du Jour #8 unfolded.

I swear it was in slow motion. He pressed the gas, the GPS fell from the dashboard. It tumbled through the air – slowly – as Tony and I looked on. With shocking luck, the gear stick broke its fall – touch-screen first – and it landed first down in the change bin. I knew what had happened to this glorious 600€ device before Tony reached casually for it.

“Shit.”

Sure enough the screen had shattered. A spider web blurred the map beneath – not that it mattered, no matter what or where or how hard we pressed, the machine refused to acknowledge our directions. But the lady pressed on, hollering to take a right. We did.

The Boat
When the Boss said the new boat, he wasn’t lying: It arrived yesterday afternoon. Tony spent from noon to eight fitting it out with the basic necessities a new boat requires – lines and tools and such. (As if I have any clue what that means.) Suddenly, as the van’s clock ticked 10:30 and we were a solid 45 minutes from home, the Boss’s noontime appointment seemed like a death sentence. We bolted.

Of course there was traffic. So while Tony bought flairs and life jackets for safety, I bought drinks and food for the fridge. (We figured it was best to stick to our own strengths.) The moment we arrived at the house, Maria and I (neither of us are boat savvy at all) launched into removing the cover and wiping down the leather seats while Tony went to pick up the Boss’s boat driving license. The second he returned, he addressed the outside (with flags and gear) while I did the interior (stocked the fridge, organized the galley, fitted out the bathroom). Within a half hour we had a nice little boat in front of us and the Boss knocking at the back door.

I hid in my room. The Boss came with family, friends. Tony was no longer going on the boat trip. But he wasn’t allowed to leave until the boat was back.

Tequila and I watched the Boss and his family leave through the slits in the shudders. The moment he was out of site, Tony was napping.


The End
The Boss came back; Tony docked the boat. The Boss lost his keys; Tony searched high and low for them in an effort to escape from driving them home. (The keys were hiding on the counter in the boat’s galley.) The Boss left; I helped Tony tidy up.

“Ok,” I asked when the boat cover was back on, “are you ready to take me home?” He looked like he was going to die and driving twenty minutes or so to the light house was out of the question. But he’d do it, if he had to. “Or,” I added quickly, “we could hang out for a little, maybe take a dip in the Jacuzzi?”

“With lots of rosé and salt and vinegar chips and Maria.”


Suddenly I see Tony getting too drunk to take me home.